


Shaking Off the Ashes

by AmaranthTalmage



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: American Civil War, Comfort/Angst, Dunno if I've Marked Enough Tags, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Future Chapters May Get Rough, If I'm missing something let me know, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Or the Right Ones, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ratings may change, Suicidal Subjects in Future Chapters, Suicide Attempt, Tags May Change, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2020-03-13 06:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18935197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaranthTalmage/pseuds/AmaranthTalmage
Summary: Goody is a shell of a man at the brink of disaster. Can Billy and the rest of his dysfunctional family save him from his worst enemy: Himself?PTSD is a hard thing. Goody will never not struggle with it. Billy is tired, but he refuses to let Goody struggle alone. The shadows will always call, the demons will never fade. Is the love of another human, of a haphazardly arrays group of charlatans, enough to pull him back from their grip?I suck at tagging, and I suck at summaries. I'll take positive criticism, none of this is beta'd, but I hope it's enjoyable to you, as it was cathartic to me. There will be future chapters that reflect an ongoing struggle; for sufferers of PTSD, the struggle never ends.And if anyone you know struggles with PTSD, take the time to learn about it, and what you can do to help. Let them know they're not alone.This is therapy for me. Please be kind.





	1. Firefight Pt 1

_Blood. So much blood. Enough that he can smell it, he can taste it on the infernally hot breeze. The sound of screams and cries sound as if he's listening to it from within a tin can, as if his ears are stuffed with cotton. He tries to breathe, fights to suck in air. It's too hot. He looks around him, trying to get his bearings, only to see filthy canvas overhead, the occasional wisp of a passing human, a few shadows beyond the canvas walls when he turns his head. He's lying down in a cot, and when he tries to move any part of his body, his arms are weak and his legs sting with pins and needles. He tries to get his elbows beneath him, to push up and trying to figure out where he is, and a hand pushes him back into the cot. He follows the arms up to the face above him to see..._

_Himself._

_It's a shock enough that he whimpers and falls back, wide-eyed at the mirror image above him. The Other has wide eyes that are red and ringed, shadows that betray a lack of sleep and combined with swollen cheeks and bitten lips, he's scared. But then, he remembers never NOT being scared any time during the war. He rabidly sucks in breath after breath, beginning to feel a little light headed, but not enough to take his eyes off the mirror image before him. He takes in the face, the face he wore in 1860. Just an innocent thing, with his meticulous grooming and his fine clothes, he was just a child then, but mother and father had taught him. Appearances were important and one always dressed nice to attend the bedside of a sick friend, his mother would say, and the Other was certainly well dressed. He recognizes that fine, brocade sapphire blue vest, it lay in the bottom of his trunk when he'd been given his grays, but how his mother had crowed about it matching his eyes, how he needed to keep it, no telling when he'd need to dress nicely. The waistcoat was military issue, as were the trousers, but the finely pressed kerchief in his lapel pocket surely wasn't, shimmering silk that kept winking in the low light. Kepi in hand, the Other slumps against something behind him. Another bed? The Other's bottom lip begins to quiver, eyes going watery as they stare unblinking at him as he runs a shaky hand through his oiled hair. What does that shivering imitation see? The Other wants to reach out, his hand hesitating, hovering just out of reach of the one that clutches the blankets. He's starting to go light-headed, his breathing as erratic as the Other's, and he can't force himself to talk through the dry, dusty desert of his throat. His lips move, making words without much else but the wind in his chest to attempt to carry sound, convey his fears and worries and questions. So many questions._

_The Other slowly shakes his head and begins to grow closer, his fists clenching and unclenching, rubbing across his own fingers with his thumb. A nervous trait, one that details the Other's distress with how slow or fast his thumb moves across the gun-cut callouses. The Other's voice is reedy, choked with too many emotions that the mind obviously nears complete shutdown. One can see the war within the Other's eyes as he tries to pinpoint exactly what he should feel. "I... I don' unnerstan' you, cher ami..." Ah, yes. Thickening accent when terrified or upset. He does that, he knows he does, and whoever this Other is, is doing a marvelous show of being him. "I don' unnerstan' what yer sayin', wait, wait..." The Other is doing his best to calm himself, for his sake, leaning down close to hear what words he's trying to push out past the parched wasteland of his throat._

_His hands are lightning quick. When the Other gets close enough, his hand flashes from the thin blanket and wraps around the standard issue Colt that lies beneath his coat on his left. When he thumbs the hammer back, the Other realizes what's happened and slumps back down into the bed behind him, hands flying up in surrender as he drops the kepi. The Other's eyes are wider now, face paling even more so that the just barely-there smattering of freckles across his cheeks are visible. The Other's chest flutters like the hummingbird beat of wings, like his heart threatening to burst from his chest._

_"What... what're'y' doin'?" the Other squeaks. The Other is terrified. Good. That makes two of them._

_Finally, he can force words out, swallowing until he has some moisture on his tongue, even if it's tainted with the heavy presence of blood in the air. "What... the HELL... is this?"_

_The Other shakes his head slowly, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible. "Y'don' remember? The mortar shell? Arthur, ma cher ami, ma frere, it... it... you... t-the Yankee shell, it..." The Other swallows thickly, running his tongue along his bottom lip and fretting over the soul patch beneath it. Another nervous habit of his own. "Please..." the Other squeaks in a trembling voice. He can see a tear finally break free and run through the dust on the Other's cheek, leaving a muddy trail. "Please..."_

_He grits his teeth. That's HIS name. The name of his father, and his father's father. No one has called him that since his time in the War. He's made damn sure none of his Family, other than Billy, his beloved Billy, know that name. He doesn't want to be Arthur, when this Other stands before him in his own face. The gun shakes in his weakening grip. He finally pushes himself up, never taking his eyes off of the Other, not until he catches a glimpse of the rest of his body. His aim is still focused on the Other, but he slowly turns his head to look. This has to be a trick. The Other cries out, in shock or fear or hurt, he can't be sure, but the sound echoes in his own throat when he throws the blanket back to see what's left of his legs. He thinks he hears the Other sob, thinks the Other looks away with a sob and pursed lips and eyes screwed shut._

_"Oh my dear sweet merciful Lord, this war has torn us apart, hasn't it, ma frere?" he thinks he hears the Other gasp through sobs and tears. He has a hard time hearing once his screams begin._

_"Goody...." he hears distantly. Are they talking to him or the Other?_

_"Goody!" The sound is sharper, and someone is wrapping hands around his shoulders. It's becoming positively claustrophobic. They're trying to soothe him._

"Goodnight!!" Billy growls through gritted teeth, pressing the thrashing and howling man to his chest. "Come on, _aga_ , wake up," he growls, trying to soothingly pull the Cajun sharpshooter from drowning in his own nightmare. It's something that's began to happen less and less, but the intensity of the ones Goodnight does suffer are spectacular. Billy begins rocking his lover, running his hands through the greying strands of his hair with one hand and holding Goody's free arm against him.

"Is there anything we can do to help, son?" is a coarse, high pitched voice. Goodnight can start to place it as he begins to surface from the black of his own Hell. 

"Whiskey. Blankets. Grab my smoke out of my pack," Billy snaps, his voice low. "Come on, _yeon-in_ , wake up for me. I got you now," he murmurs, his breath hot against Goodnight's ear. Goody gasps as he tries to shoot up with a scream that Billy is quick to muffle against his own shirt as he presses the man's face against his chest. His eyes are wide and white with terror, the azure glimmer hazy as he still struggles to come out of the dream. "I got you, _aga_. Breathe with me, listen to my chest. Breathe in...."

The first few breaths Goodnight takes are just gasps as he tries to suck in as much of the Western air as he can. Instead of blood and gunpowder and death on his tongue, he can taste whiskey and tobacco and Billy's medicine. He can taste the campfire, the acrid smoke still billowing into the night. He raises a hand that tangles into the lapels of Billy's vest and hangs on for dear life. He feels like he might shake apart here as he finally begins to hear his lover's voice coaching him on coming around. His next breaths are shaky, but they follow the pattern lain down for him. In.... out.... in.... out....

Billy keeps him tightly against his own chest with one sinewy arm and fiddles with the silver tin of cigarettes he keeps especially for this purpose. Someone to his side strikes a match and lights it for him as he takes a breath, the opium working through his system for a short moment before he clenches it between his lips and cups Goody's cheek. "Hey. Look at me, _aejeong_. Come on. That's it." The Cajun's eyes are now closed tightly as he turns towards the sweet timbre, still sucking in air with effort. Billy lowers his head and whispers, "Open your lips. Breathe me in."

Billy takes a deep pull off of the cigarette and lowers his head again. The curtain of raven hair hides him as he brushes his lips across Goody's to exhale the smoke. Obediently, Goody draws it into himself. He knows this game intimately, it's an instinct borne of years of closeness. He holds it in for a moment, his eyes rolling back visibly beneath his eyelids before he pushes it out with a gust. Billy expects that and has leaned back just enough to escape the cloud. The trembles become a little less. "Again," Billy murmurs softly before taking in another drag and ghosting his lips over the Cajun's. This time, the transaction is smoother as Goody begins to unwind in his arms, as the sweet smoke of opium and tobacco soothe his muscles. They pass a few minutes this way, working the cigarette faster than normal until it's too small to be useful. Billy flicks the butt into the small bonfire that crackles a few feet away.

"Are you with me?" Billy murmurs against the other man's ear. He's answered with a wretched, "...yes," and it threatens to break his heart. This sweet creature doesn't deserve the demons, but Billy will be damned if he leaves him to suffer them alone. He presses his cheek to Goody's head, running one hand through his hair. He can feel his lover's muscles begin to tighten again. He knows what comes next; Goodnight knows little more than shame when these episodes take over, when there's really nothing to be ashamed about. Each man that surrounds them is full of regrets, even himself, but Billy won't let his lover suffer them on his own. With how tightly this haphazard Family has become since Rose Creek, he doesn't think anyone would leave Goodnight to himself. Especially Sam Chisolm. "You're okay, _aga_. You're gonna be okay. I got you," he sighs. His sweet affirmations dissolve into his mother tongue. Anger burns within his chest. There's nothing he can do more for Goodnight. There are no physical threats that will save the man, nothing he can kill that will bring Goody peace. 

"Is he done? Can we sleep yet? Goddamn..." Faraday barks sleepily on the other side of the fire. Billy is a flash of barely contained fury when he flicks his wrist and a knife sinks into the ground beside the drunkard gambler, pinning his blanket to the ground. "Goddamn! What the actual fuckin' FUCK, Rocks??" the man screeches, scurrying out of his bedroll to nearly bowl over Vasquez, encamped close, earning him a flurry of punches as the outlaw struggles to fling the man off of him. Each smack is loud, punctuated with a colorful array of Spanish curses.

Once Vasquez takes a sleepy look at what Faraday is scurrying from, in case it might be real danger, he settles back down into his bedroll with a beleaguered sigh. "...pinche pendejo..." he mumbles before attempting to slide back into unconsciousness, his hat pulled over his face.

Old Jack Horne chuckles and it sounds like thunder in his chest. "Son, you go around poking bears, you're gonna get hurt."

Faraday glares at him like an impetulant child. "Yer mama got poked by a bear..." he mumbles angrily as he crawls back into his own bedroll. He decides not to touch the knife. It's Billy's knife. Anyone that touches it has ended up dead, and he doesn't want to be one of those men. It's not that bad a night, he can sleep on his blankets tonight.

Vasquez huffs a laugh at the gambler's audacity. " _Guerito_ , do you have a deathwish, teasing those men?" he asks, picking up his hat to glare sidelong at what must be the product of pure Irish testicular fortitude and the best stupidity America has to offer. "You are going to die, _hombre_ , and I won't save you this time."

Billy pays them no mind, not when he has a lap full of a broken toy soldier. Not to say that it'll stop him from pulling another knife, but his attention is focused elsewhere. He has his forehead pressed against Goody's temple, lips brushing the delicate shell of the other man's ear as he whispers prayers in his own language for some god, any god, even the Cajun's own, to deliver the man from his personal Hell. And if not, then at least give him the strength to continue to save the man from himself. The nightmares have been fewer in number than before Rose Creek, but when he does have them, they're all the worse for it. It's most exhausting when the darkness that haunts him becomes visible in the waking world, when the old sharpshooter is worn out or someone reminds him of what he left behind once, when he was Arthur Goodnight Robicheaux, and not just Goody. When the shakes take him and he drinks a little too much and Billy finds him cowering in the corner of their room or running into the night beyond the campfire as he tries to outpace his past. He just hopes his strength will last, every time he has to pull his lover from the cramped shadows or ride out to find him. But when the man makes him laugh, or stands up tall and powerful between him and some racist asshole, when he's reminded why he does this, that waning faith in himself is renewed. Doesn't stop him from praying.

The moist heat of a sigh against his chest comes before the clenched hands around his vest relax and the muscles in the shoulders he holds weaken. He looks down into wet, blue eyes no longer clouded by the past and his lips twitch in a restrained smile. "There you are, _nae salang_ ," he breathes.

" _...ma cher_ ," Goodnight whimpers weakly as his fingers begin to smooth over the wrinkles in Billy's shirt. Nervous habit. " _...je suis vraiment desole..."_

Billy wants to shake him. Wants the man to know that there's nothing about this he should ever have to apologize for. His mouth works to try and form the words, but the sadness, the anger, the burn of a thousand words are stuck in the lump in his throat. He hears a thud to his side, a sharp yelp from Faraday as someone kicks him. He wants to smile at justice done, but can't do more than focus on keeping the trembles that beg to run through his hands down. Not much more than keep himself from simultaneously crushing the man in his arms in a hug, or shake him like a child who refuses to listen. 

Instead, Sam Chisolm pipes up. "Go back to sleep, Joshua. Got a long ride tomorrow and ain't no one going to rescue you from your own ignorance again."

" _Mira_?" Vasquez barks with a laugh, vindicated.

"That goes for you, too, Vas."

"When have I ever had to be rescued for...."

"Shut it. I mean it." This time, Sam Chisolm's voice is closer. It's a small warning before the man himself squats just before Billy to slowly wrap a hand around Goody's shoulder. Goody pushes into Billy's chest, his eyes screwed tight and Sam's fingers flex, gently kneading the muscles beneath his hand. "Now, none of that shame bullshit with me, son. You know better."

Goody relaxes a fraction in Billy's arms. "Nothing more than habit, I'm afraid," he replies morbidly. 

Sam's thumb rubs small circles in the shoulderblade he's holding. "None of that, either. I've spent too many years pulling your ass from the fire. Billy here's got the look of someone who's been working towards the same goal," he breathes, his words slow and soft and comforting. He knows this war well himself, and Billy couldn't be more relieved to have help. "Got a few more around you that won't let you founder. You don't gotta ask for nothing when we're offering. I know you're thinking you're some burden, and that's a lot of crap. All of us have demons. Yours, they're just visible enough we can help. You ever see any of ours, you're welcome to pitch in. You have before, if you remember."

"Lincoln, Kansas," Goody murmurs against the material of Billy's shirt, the cotton moving against his chapped lips. His voice is small and afraid. He remembers those dire nights of a drunken Sam, having to save the man from his own two hands on more than one occasion.

"That's right," Sam says with a nod, his fingers inching their way to wrap around the muscles of Goodnight's neck and continue their ministrations. "We survived that fire. We made it out of the ashes and found what it was we were looking for, even if we didn't know we were looking for it in the first place." Sam looks up, catching Billy's eye for a moment. Billy can see the raw sincerity in the depths of dark chocolate eyes that match his for intensity and sharpness.

The curiosity is too much for Goody. That was always a trait Billy loved, the insatiable curiosity. Where other men would run, Goodnight always turned towards the subject, wanted to learn more, understand whatever it was that made men run angry and afraid. Even when it was some blood-covered and dust-ridden Korean in a Texas bar. The Cajun haltingly turns his head over his shoulder, catching Billy's eyes for a moment before locking eyes with Sam Chisolm. The law officer flashes a sweet, disarming smile and Goody's face softens to see his old friend fussing over him as much as his lover. If there ever were two people he trusted to know what named his demons, trusted to pull him from drowning in his Hell or whiskey, trusted to save him from himself, it was Billy and Sam Chisolm. But in his addled moments, he can't do much more than ponder the words. He remembers. 

" _ **What was lost in the fire, we'll find in the ashes**_."

What could he possibly find when most days, he feels so desperately lost? He can't form coherent thoughts at this moment. He can only focus on the warm heartbeat that thunders against his ear, beneath his lover's chest. He can only focus on trying to breathe, trying not to run into the cover of darkness, trying to remain safe in the arms that hold him and try to ward away the shame that threatens to consume him when the nightmares go away. But his eyes focus on Sam, even if they twitch with anxiety. Sam is familiar. Sam is safety. His curious gaze burns clear, waiting, because he knows Sam will tell him, if he's too muddled and dazed with drink or nightmares. Sam understands that, thinking clearly at the moment is not within his power.

Sam leans down close to Goody's ear. Billy will still hear him, but whatever anyone says to him, they can say to his partner. "We're the glorious sons of a failed revolution, Arthur Goodnight Robicheaux. Failed, because in war, no one wins but the politicians. None of us could return home again. But home is not a place, it's where one is welcome. And a family isn't always blood. Look around you now. This is what we found in the ashes, Goody. Family and home." Sam pats him paternally on the shoulder. "Just think about it, yeah?" he says softly as he sits back up, nodding once at Billy as the lock eyes over the slowly relaxing Cajun, as if Sam had known the assassin was going to hear, as if that message was for them both.

Billy feels a lump in his throat. He'd spent years trying to say the same thing, and Goody had told him this before, as well. This was the first time someone else had said anything of the fashion to him. He clenches his teeth to keep the emotions behind them. He has to stay strong. This time, Goody needs him. Billy will have his own nightmares, ones of Rose Creek. Dreams where Goody never returns, dreams where the man dies in his arms, owls surrounding him and waiting for the moment Billy lets go to swoop the Cajun away. Billy wakes up with a battle roar those nights, drenched in a cold sweat and gripping a blade with white knuckles as he prepares to defend his lover, only for Goody to gentle him down away from that rage. Sometimes, the nightmares resemble the claustrophobic rocking of a ship as he and his family made their way to America, surrounded by death and the cries of the dying, the hungry and the frightened. Over thirty years, and he still wakes up sobbing like a child. Goodnight had been his only home, his only family, his only shelter. Before him, Goody had Sam. Sam had always been safe for Goody. Now Sam sits before him to offer that same solace. 

Billy has seen loyalty here. He's watched Faraday harass Red, yet turn quick to defend the young man. He's seen Red defend Horne to his fellow Natives, when riding through untamed lands, even if the man had spent years hunting scalps. A cantina down south had been a close call when Faraday angered a mess of vaquero, only for Vasquez to smooth things over, and the day ended in Faraday making new drinking buddies. That night had seen the men trading Irish drinking songs for Mexican, allies by the end of their stay. Horne and Sam were always quick to defend the younger men, even himself. 

Carefully crafted walls begin to crumble just a little more, but Billy worries that his voice will betray the crack that's formed in his chest. But Goody can hear the thundering heart beneath his ear, knows what he's thinking just by that alone. The man has learned Billy's every tell. The assassin nods solemnly, bobbing his head just once as he turns his eyes back upon his lover. Sam gets the message and stands up to head to his bedroll. Billy waits until Sam is settled down, and it's just the two of them again. Goody's turned his head back to press his face against Billy's stomach again, just breathing the other man in. Anyone else would think the old sharpshooter asleep, but Billy knew the Cajun's tells as well as his own. Goody's fingers fretted with the burnished buttons of his vest and he looked down to see his lover worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. The long fan of his lashes brush his bright red cheeks as he blinks the tears from his eyes. Billy runs a thumb along the cheekbone he could see, gathering the moisture there and wiping it on his own shirt. Goody looks up at him with weary eyes full of regret and pain, and Billy wished again that this were a physical thing that haunts his lover. Something he could KILL.

Billy leans down close to press a chaste kiss to the other man's bite-swollen, chapped lips. "You good?" he murmurs.

Goody squirms in Billy's arms and manages to sit up against his lover. Sheepishly, he looks around at the sleeping forms of his brethren, all except for Red, who tends to the watch for the next hour or two. "Made a right mess of the evening, haven't I, _cher_?" he mutters. The corner of his mouth twists in a hesitant grin, a grimace, a desperate attempt to laugh away the pain.

Billy's face is severe, gaze burning as he takes the other man's chin in his hand and turns him carefully to face him. His eyes glitter dangerously and his face is stern. "Listen to me. I will only say this once," he growls, his voice a deep timbre that shakes Goody to the core. "Don't ever. Apologize for this again. You never need apologize to me. Not to anyone. You made it out. Takes a hell of a man, and a brave man to keep fighting. You saved me, and now I'll be there to help chase off your damned owl." Billy leans down and presses his forehead against Goody's own. He listens to the breath hitching in the Cajun's chest and smooths a gloved palm over the other man's cheek, relishing the feel of stubble and smooth skin beneath his bare fingertips. "And so will the rest of these assholes."

Goody hiccups a laugh and more tears escape his tired eyes. His heart is full enough to burst. Even though the shadows of his past remain, in this moment, they linger far in the back of his consciousness. Billy had always been masterful at chasing the clouds away, which is why he feels safe and warm in the powerful sinewy arms. Hands that can kill so easily, have been as coated in blood as his own, stroke his hair and face soothingly. Goodnight will never fear those fingers that bring death so quickly to their enemies. He knows what this feeling is, but cannot put a name to it, not until Billy arranges him comfortably in his bedroll and settles down behind him. Billy slides an arm beneath his head and cradles him in the crook of his elbow. The other slips around his waist and pulls him flush against the other man's chest, and in that moment, when Billy's hand rests upon his chest and rubs soothing circles in the flesh that hides his heart, Goodnight understands what he's feeling. Sam's words make sense suddenly, as he realizes Billy is unafraid to show this affection in front of their friends. Their FAMILY. Here, among the ruffians and scoundrels and killers, he is welcome and free to be himself. They both are. He understands what came of the ashes.

They're home.


	2. Firefight Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A town calls for help. A firefight ensues. Things that can go wrong, do, and Goodnight is left with the fallout of a shot he couldn't take an a brother in danger. Now Billy must handle the aftermath.  
> This time, however, he's not alone.
> 
> This is a two parter cuz i had to split it up, but this is a continuing catharsis, and whenever I have some heavy shit, more will appear, but in the meantime, I'll be putting up the second Part to this one ASAP cuz i need closure and you will too.  
> Just remember that this is therapy for me, be kind, and leave comments and/or kudos at your leisure. I need validation, it's part of the process, but I won't sloot myself around for it or beg. Just ask, if you like it, let me know.  
> Part two coming soon, and thanks for putting up with my stuff. I'm not 100% better now, but I'm better than I was yesterday, and I'll be better tomorrow than I am today. I may not be cured, but it does get better.

What a blessed woman, that Emma Cullen who let them have access to her farmhouse and property when needed. During the best of circumstances, their arrival had been nothing more than a social call, and they found themselves once again well fed by the town and entertained by whiskey, cards, and stories of the town's development since they'd left. The rail was headed their way, and the telegraph lines that had begun to snake across the country would be coming with it. The mines had begun to pay out well, now that ownership had been transferred to the town. The school had grown to accommodate the growing number of children that had arrived with their parents, eager to see this miracle town that seven men had delivered from Bogue with the help of a warrioress worthy of great glory. And that brought to mind the new Mayor, Mrs Emma Cullen herself, who seemed to be the only one with balls enough to do the job.

  
But then, there were bad circumstances, bad reasons to seek the kindness and safety of the farmhouse on the outskirts of Rose Creek, like a particularly harsh winter or someone taken ill. This time around, there were injuries.

  
They had chased a group of marauders into a box canyon, the very canyon the gang had taken as their hideout. The firefight gave the idea that the gang had been stockpiling ammo, and showed no signs of running out. Red Harvest skirted the rim of the canyon, seeking an opening to fire down into the group of men from behind. Goodnight had been tasked with rounding the canyon edge from the opposite direction, attempting to catch the men in a crossfire. The rest of the Seven had closed around the boulders that stood sentry over the opening of the canyon, trapping the gang within. Crouched to the right was Vasquez and Faraday, back to back as usual. On the left was the man in black himself, Sam Chisolm, Jack Horne and Billy by his side and emptying rifles at dizzying speeds. Both were accustomed to using their hands, but he had to admit to being just as pleasantly surprised that they were just as skilled with lead.

  
They had narrowed it down from twenty to five, dug well into the crevasses around the canyon that Goodnight and Red were having difficulty pushing them out into the open for the others to take care of. Smart, to seek a blind dip into the rock. The old doubts, the niggling little voices in Goody's head that tried to demean his worth, tried their best to convince him of his inept skill, but he would always need to prove his worth, prove that he was a capable rider and shot, live up to the faith that his dear old friend had placed in him, and prove to his lover that he would never run out again. The men had forgiven him, to be sure, but he'd never forgive himself, even if he ran himself dogged and blind.

  
Once again, Goody shouldered the rifle, bringing one of the last into aim in the brass scope on his gun. He breathed, imagining it an extension of who he was. He breathed, remembering him that this was for the safety and wellbeing of local towns and their families. He breathed, remembering the blissful smile on his Billy's face to chase away the haunting cry of the owl that lingered too near some days. He breathed, letting the noises around him fade into the background as he sited the hat of the man below, dug in so deep he might have been made of rock himself. He breathed, until the man looked up at him, and he saw a child. Suddenly, Goodnight was thrown back into that tearful farewell on the train platform, sent to college where he was dragged into the War, still a child. He looked down the scope and saw himself. He couldn't stop the cry that left his throat as he slumped to the ground, clutching the rifle to his chest. The hot metal of the barrel burned through the cotton and brocade and wool, burned the skin on his hands, but he didn't feel it. He felt the sticky hot of a Louisiana noon, his mother's wails as she begged him to write, asked if he had everything, asked if he'd remember her on this last time he'd see her ever again. He screwed his eyes shut and curled in upon himself, whimpering. He was going to shoot a boy. He was going to shoot a boy that resembled him as a youth. He was going to shoot himself. He should have shot himself. That boy would be shot and never experience life. Where was his mother? Would he turn out as much a worthless lout if left alive? Would he remain a criminal? Were there reasons he ran this way? Could he not be saved? If Goody couldn't, could the boy below at least be spared? The weakness in his body left him mute, unable to even stand and warn the others. With one hand, he took the crown of his hat in hand and pushed it further down, his whole form, further down, until he couldn't see daylight any longer. Hyperventilating, it wasn't too long until he faded into darkness himself.

* * *

  
  
"Goddammit, what's keeping them assholes up there?" Faraday groused, back against the boulder while he slipped cartridges from his belt, irritable as he dropped them into the cylinder. "You'd think they would at least be able to push them sons of bitches out into the open!" He flipped Ethel to close the cylinder and looked over his shoulder into the clearing before them.  
"Maybe the men, they no wanna come out to play with your ugly mug," Vasquez chuckled, firing at the hint of a hat the showed from around a jut of rock. The hat flew off of the bandit's head and Vasquez barked victoriously. "Ha!!" He was disappointed when the man refused to pick it up from plain view.

  
Chisolm had finished reloading a rifle, handing it up to Horne and continuing loading his own weapon. "They'll take care of it. We have a reputation to uphold."

  
Billy huffed. "...reputation," he growled in bitter humor. His eyes were too busy flitting from the rock formations that hid the bandits, wondering if he could get in there without arousing suspicion and end this with a well placed blade. Chisolm knew, however, that Billy was watching the canyon edge as well, where Goodnight sat watching over them. He was nervous. They both were. Both knew that a firefight brought the demons out to play. Both knew that Goody's evening would be painful, dizzying in the speed with which the Cajun would work to drown the voices of his subconscious. Billy watched as his lover stood to take aim, stood too long, in fact. The assassin's eyes were riveted, his body going taut. "Something's wrong," he murmured to Sam, still watching the sharpshooter. When Goody cried out and fell, Billy became a blur as he ran back down the canyon to run to the stricken man as fast as he could.

  
Faraday stood up. "And just where the fuck is he go...."

  
Sam's head swiveled to Joshua as soon as he stood, ready to snap about the gambler's apparent lack of judgement, when the bullet sank into the moron. Vasquez had enough time to drop his gun and catch the other man as he slammed back into the boulder, sliding to the ground as he clutched his side. The Irishman had gone silent, and that was worrying enough to Vasquez. He quickly pulled up the wounded man's ruined shirt, breathing erratically as he checked for an exit wound... and found none. He would deny the noise he made was a whimper. "Tsch, _cabron_!" he hissed, clicking his tongue as his brows furrowed. He looked up into green eyes, pupils nothing more than pinpricks. "Why did you... _pinche guero_!"

  
Faraday said nothing. He focused on breathing. The sounds that had surrounded him swam to his ears through his own thundering heartbeat and a ringing that he'd only heard once before, when he'd blown up the Gatling and lay back into singed grass to die. God damned Robicheaux sure picked a hell of a time to waffle...

  
Sam looked to Horne and handed him the rifle Billy had been using when his handgun had run out. With a silent nod, the old tracker kept cover as Sam rolled across the opening, a few rounds puffing up the sand around him as he sought cover beside Faraday. Vasquez had already untied the kerchief from around the gambler's neck and pressed it down upon the wound. As Faraday's teeth clenched around a yelp and a hiss, Vasquez took the other man's hands, limp at his side, and pressed it over the material. "Here. _Mira, estupido_ , hold this!" he bit out. Vasquez looked up at Sam. "He's losing blood fast. It's still in there, _jefe_. We gotta get him somewhere NOW."

  
Sam looked up at the cliff where Red Harvest still rained down arrows when he saw an opening. On the other side, he could see the top of Billy's hat as he approached where they'd seen Goody fall. He listened to the falls of bullets, fewer now than there had been when Faraday had taken the hit. He anticipated two, maybe three men left in the canyon. Over his shoulder, Horne had stopped firing, understanding that it would be useless to waste ammunition. They could let two men go, they might even be able to end this peacefully at this point. He hung his head and took off his dark hat, running one calloused hand over his short, thick hair with a sigh before putting it back on with a grimace. "Alright. Take him. We can finish up here, but get him home. We're not far from Emma's."

  
Send him home? To a bed again? To be useless and torn and bleeding and worthless as he healed from a bullet? He'd taken worse before, Faraday thought, his free hand inching towards Maria. "N...no. No. I can fight. I can finish this. So far... so far, so good, right?" Joshua groaned, bucking against the rock in an attempt to right himself as his hands closed around Maria's handle. He couldn't be left to waste away again, languishing away in a bed while the rest of them rode out. He could still fire a gun, would be able to with his last breath. They needed him. He needed to show them that they needed him. He'd just found welcome, what would he do if they rode off once more, never to return? But hands pushed him back into the rock and gentle voices hushed him. His hands tightened around the gun and he grit his teeth. "Let me fight, goddamn it! I can..." His argument was halted with a hard, rasping cough that burned worse than uncut whiskey, deep inside. He could feel the cloth against his side soaking with more blood until he slumped weakly against the rock and Vasquez, sucking in air desperately. "...oh fuck," he whimpered as he looked down and his face paled a fraction.

  
Vasquez pulled him further into the cover of boulders then stood, crouching behind the boulder as he stepped towards the few, scrubby trees that hid their horses and gear. His silver spurs rang against the ground as he readied her for a long, hard ride. His movements were sharp and determined as he returned, pulling Faraday clear of the firefight and over to his mare. The gambler fought as the outlaw tried to help him into the saddle, but when the fire in his side stabbed at him, he gasped and crumpled to the ground, defeated. After some work, Vasquez sat in the saddle, Faraday between him and the horn and held tightly with one swarthy and sinewy arm. The outlaw looked back over the men, his brothers, and spun the spirited mount into the open plains behind them. With a sharply snapped, " _VAMANOS_!!!", the horse flew into action, pressing the weakening Irishman against him as she kicked up dust and flew.

  
There were too many words left for him to say. Vasquez wanted to tell the man, how many times he'd wanted to hold him just like this, just this tight, just this close, but never like this. It would have suited their humor. He wished to a God he no longer prayed to that their ride had been slower, less blood and bullets, and more of his nuzzling into that soft space behind the other man's ear. Too many chances not taken for fear of convention. Instead, he rode silently, his Diabla dancing over cracks and rocks like a mythical beast and listening to the breathy grunts and groans of the man he held against him with each concussive hoofbeat.

  
"I'm gonna die," Faraday whimpered, his head lolling back against the shoulder behind him. Everything had been a blur, but he remembered the wound, he could almost hear the lead scraping against a rib each time he was jostled. He must have blacked out between them moving him and then setting him upon the horse, because it took him looking down at the mount for him to realize who held him. Once he did, however, a wry grin drew his lips against the cough that itched in his throat. "...what a way to go, though, ey?" he murmured weakly, turning to nose at the other man's temple.

  
Vasquez's breath hitched in his throat and he quickly covered it up with a growl. " _Calletate_!" Vasquez snapped through his teeth and the lump threatening to choke him. "You'll be okay. Just... just hang on." 'Please hang on, _guero_ , for me,' a mantra that repeated over and over in his mind, lost to the screaming wind as it flew past. The hand that held Faraday to him crawled to rest over the other man's heart, fingers itching to dig into the flesh and hold on as if he alone could strengthen the slowly weakening beat and keep it safe. He kept his eyes on the path that swiftly thundered below his mount's hooves but dipped his head, letting his rough, chapped lips press against Joshua's collarbone. "Just hang on," he prayed almost tearfully.

  
A smirk crossed Faraday's lips as he ran his tongue along them, tinting them pink with blood that he swallowed back to hide from Vasquez. Even if it was here, so close to his end, at least he'd had the opportunity to feel those lips against his skin. He'd heard the tears in the other man's voice, though, hurt that he'd caused his best friend, and for once unashamed, he let his own tears fall and trace paths on the dirt and blood on his face. He'd never known anything this close to love, always a greedy man, he only knew consumption and excess and never selflessness until Rose Creek. Until they had a lean and tall Mexican in their number, his want had always been carnal and plentiful. He was afraid of this, had been afraid if not eager to explore this new concept, and now the chance slipped between his fingers as he held onto the trickling wound. He turned his head further into the crook of the other man's neck and let his lips find the powerfully thrumming pulse there, he tried to focus on that hum of power as if it could force his own to stay strong. His blood-painted lips left the outline of his mouth as a grim claim of territory, however brief. Brief. The thought angered him and his greed reared it's head. Damn his luck, to bring this thing into his life only for it to end before it began. He wanted, didn't he deserve this, for all he'd endured? Didn't Vasquez? His brows furrowed as he grit his teeth, pressed into the shelter of Vasquez's soft, tanned flesh and his lips trembled against the sensitive skin as he unsuccessfully fought down a sob. "...I'm scared, Vas..." he breathed through a weak shudder, his open mouthed exhales hot against Vasquez' burning skin. "I'm so scared..."

  
Vasquez could see the town and the new hospital within and drew a shaky breath as they flew nearer. Hot moisture gathered on his neck where Faraday's face pressed into him and he knew it to be tears that ran as freely as his own. He could feel Diabla sweated below him, flecks of foam pealing from her mouth as her great chest heaved in exhaustion. She was nearing her limits, but they were so close, too close. She was smart, like Wild Jack. He imagined that she could smell the blood and gunpowder and fear, and he imagined she could sense his desperation. Their hearts were too alike. Both would drop before surrendering to failure, but with the way she snorted to draw each wheezing breath, he feared she would drop from beneath them any moment. However, with her temperament, she was beyond his direction, and no amount of reining her in or kneeing her to a slower speed would stop her. "Me too, _hermoso_. Me too."

* * *

  
The bullets. THE BULLETS! Too loud when they glanced off the rock he'd fallen behind and disappeared into the far distance. Where they landed, he paid no attention. The bullets flying by became the roar of his blood, and that became the roar of artillery and the howl of the dead and dying. His jaw locked as he ground his teeth together, caught up in the ghosts of his past as he wrapped his arms around his head and drew himself tighter. His rifle fell uselessly against the ground and he couldn't remember where it might have landed. Someone was talking to him, and he couldn't hear past the ringing of an owls voice and the howls of the damned.

  
Billy crouched before his lover and took in the image before him. The heat of battle was nowhere to lose one's self, but his broken sharpshooter had fallen to an old wound deeper than any bullet could pierce, and scarring far more than flesh. He was stuck between wanting to throttle the infuriating man and wanting to pull him away into something cool and comforting. The last of the gunfire faded away and they were left with a silent moment where all he could hear were the whimpers and gasps of the shuddering man crumpled against the boulder. He kept his movements painfully slow as he reached a hand out, murmuring platitudes as he inched forth. "Shh, _aga_ , I'm here. Goody? Can you hear me? I'm going to put my hand on your shoulder, alright?" As Billy's hand neared enough that he could feel the heat radiating off of the other man, Goody flinched with a sharp gasp, cowering against the rock. He hadn't seen Goodnight this bad in a while, not since Rose Creek, and only a few times before that, before the relationship between them had deepened and his hold alone kept the other man from trembling to pieces. "Goodnight," he crooned. "It's just me. Just Billy." He grit his teeth as he slid his hand over the other man's shoulder. The muscle below his touch tensed sharply as the sharpshooter tried to fold in upon himself for a moment.

  
Goody could finally hear the soft, low timbre of the voice as it cut through the fire and damnation and began to push through it, push it back into the deeper recesses where it belonged. He could still hear the roar of artillery, or was it the rushing of blood or the gasping wheeze of his breath? Strands of his own hair came away in his hands as he lowered them a moment, looking sidelong into the burning light of day that glared out beyond his bubble. He knew the shoes he saw, the dusty grey pants that wrinkled and drew tight over the knees so close he could touch. The roar of cannon faded beyond that gentle urging and his fingers, cramped in their hold, shot forward to tangle in the cloth of Billy's shirt and vest. With a tormented howl, he fell into the other man's chest, eyes wide and unseeing. There were no sobs as he screamed his nightmares into his lover's chest, drenching Billy in spittle, tears, mucus and sweat. So real, so warm and strong and safe, Billy would keep the horrors at bay, always did. Goody sucked in breath after breath and screamed into his lover as Billy's arms wrapped around him to ground him. Safe, where the shadows couldn't touch him.

  
Billy held him as the howls turned into broken, hiccuping sobs, held the man together as he shivered so hard his own teeth clacked together. They'll sit and talk, drink and smoke as they move through what had happened, why the man had collapsed, just as they always do. He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind the other man's crimson ear and cupped his head close. "Breathe with me, _yeon-in_. Come on..." He counted until Goody's breathing had become substantially more steady, holding him still until the shakes had mostly resolved. As he did, he worked worried his cheek between his teeth. The man never took loss so lightly, took any form of defeat in the best way. He'd calmed Goody now, and now was certainly not the time to consider the damage back below, but he knew the Cajun would take Faraday's wound hard. He'd been proud that he'd kept the Blackstones off of the younger man's back as he raced to destroy the Gatling and the two had formed the kind of relationship one does with younger siblings. Younger, brattier siblings. The man would almost certainly blame himself. He tilted Goody's face up at him and looked down at the swollen eyes and cheeks, the bitten lips and wet moustache. Reaching around him, he pulled the pressed silk square from Goody's coat and carefully wiped the other man's face clean. His goal is to make sure Goody is presentable enough to make it back to the others. Once they're back in private, he'll be able to get to the bottom of why Goodnight was thrown back into his past.

  
Billy tucked the dirtied silk into his own pocket, intent on cleaning it before giving it back to Goody as he cradled the man against him with one arm. With his other hand, he carefully removed the sharpshooter's hat from where it sat askew on his head and ran his fingers through the sweat-soaked hair, shushing Goody as he whimpered and sighed into his chest. If it were just the two of them, he would have settled into the dust to hold Goody into the evening, but two of their own were left to ride like lightning back to town, a wounded man and another desperately holding the wounded man in the saddle. His grip had been so tight, as if his fingers alone could have kept a dying soul from slipping through his fingers. Billy had recognized that desperation then, knew that there was more within Vasquez than the man would ever willingly express, and if Goody were in any better mind, they would share this gossip. As it was, he'd have Hell trying to convince Goodnight that this wasn't all his fault.

  
Billy sighed heavily and turned his head into the one held against his chest, nosing at the sweat-matted wisps of hair along his lover's temple. "C'mon, Goody. We gotta get up," he murmured softly. The shudders and sobs had died off and all that remained was shaky breaths and the vice-like grip on his vest and shirt, which began to weaken with his words. All he heard was a strangled affirmative before the sharpshooter began to stretch out his legs with a wince. With some effort, they made it to their feet, his hands settling on Goodnight's narrow hips until the man could stand steadily. His sharp eyes watched the play of emotions running over Goody's face, the fear, the pain, disorientation followed by a flash of realization, then the Cajun's face darkened with shame as he remembered where they were and he bowed his head, trying in vain to bury his head into his chest, if only his head and hat could fill the gaping hole in his chest. Billy caught Goody's chin in his hand and pulled him away from his escape. "Goody," he uttered, deep and low, and those blue eyes were on him in an instant as they glittered watery, even shadowed in their guilt. "It's not your fault. Say it."

  
Goody's eyes watered as flashes of memory assaulted him. A single tear tracked down through the muddied trailed already carved upon his cheeks and he began to shake his head as he closed his eyes. The single deep growl of his full name, a threat he had no intention of testing, and he reluctantly looked back into the velvet dark of Billy's gaze. He could feel the trembling begin again and he couldn't help the fearful look he'd turned upon his lover, no matter how hard he regretted that. He opened his mouth to talk, to say something, anything, but all that came out was a weak mewl as his brows climbed towards his hairline then furrowed. He looked so lost, so frightened, Billy wanted to take him back to camp and never let him alone again, keep him safe always by his side. "Say it, Goodnight. It's not your fault."

  
Goody's lips trembled. "It's... It is..."

  
Billy nodded in encouragement, hurried as he tried to move the man along. "It is NOT..."

  
Goodnight's whole form shuddered as he began to weaken into himself again, bowing his head in shame and exhaustion. He couldn't do it. He couldn't force a lie onto his Billy, standing so honest and open in front of him. He shook his head, gasping, a piteous noise slipping out of him as his eyes began to glint in panic once more.

  
Billy slipped an arm around him. "No. We'll work on it. It's okay. You're okay. Let's get to the guys."

  
Goody went easily, slotting himself into the space beneath Billy's comforting grip, and their descent into the belly of the canyon came easier than Billy expected. Once at the bottom with Sam, Red, and Horne did Goodnight begin to breathe heavily once more. His eyes combed the area for the comfort of his family being whole, but there were two missing. It wasn't until his eyes caught the sand covered puddle of blood behind a boulder that he finally crumpled to the ground with a groan. His eyes rolled back in his head as his chest heaved with wheezing gasps. That blood was too new, too close to where he'd known Vasquez and Faraday to be hiding, and looked too suspiciously as if someone had tried to cover it up. But Goodnight knew. Someone, someone in his family, was hurt, and it had been because he couldn't take the shot. The shock and pain was too much to bear for his mind and body and there was nothing left for him to do but shut down. 

  
Horne ceased holding prayers over the mouth of the canyon and turned to see BIlly dropping to the ground beside the shaking sharpshooter, and he shot a look over to Sam before moving with surprising speed for his bulk. "Oh Lord Above in His Glory, he's having a fit," he sighed heavily before dropping to the ground on the other side of Goodnight to take his hand.  
Red stood over them, imposing for all his youth, then knelt at Goody's head. "Turn him to his side. He will choke." Without looking back at their youngest brother, both Billy and Horne rolled Goodnight to his side, unquestioning the wise youth. Both knew, when Red Harvest spoke, it was a rarity but he never spoke less than the truth. "Let him rest. He will come out of it once the fit is spent." He looked up at Billy. The relationship between Billy and Goodnight had been no secret, but their position had been more welcome to Red Harvest than others, who experienced such things in his tribe. He knew the value of each man to the other. "You. Speak to him. Softly. Soothe him." Billy nodded.

  
Sam watched the whole ordeal with his arms crossed over his chest, a painful sigh rushing from him. He'd tried to cover the blood before Goody arrived, knew the Cajun would blame himself for Faraday, for the dead men in the canyon, even the ones he didn't kill. He'd feared this outcome, he'd seen Goodnight in his fits before, drunken and sobbing around a campfire in those days after he'd been rescued. That gentle soul should never have touched a gun, but Sam was never less than thankful that Goody had, and was uncannily good at it, despite lacking any fight in his heart. Goodnight had never been a man that was made for blood and dirt and bounties, never for hungry and cold nights on the road or surrounded by fire and death. Sam would have been glad for Goodnight to have stayed ignorant of the world around him, instead of the fragile warrior he'd been forced to become. The man should have been a professor, he was made to be an aristocrat. Goody would have been a better philosopher or writer than a killer and gunfighter.  
Silently, Sam fetched their horses as Goody's fit began to simmer down, and wordlessly, he handed the canteen to Horne. He knew the sharpshooter would need water once the shakes had subsided. It was only a few moments later that the tremors had indeed faded and Billy pulled Goodnight into his lap, tawny head of hair lolled back against the sinewy shoulder as he breathed erratically. Sam knelt down next to Horne and, watching Billy's protective gaze, reached up to gently tap his fingertips against Goodnight's cheek. "Hey, old man. Time t' git. Gonna git with me?" Though his words were soft and candid, it was a gentle attempt at humor to bring out the witty man within.

Goodnight, to his credit, tried to speak, his head wagging from side to side. "G.... good...", he rasped until Horne pressed the lip of the canteen to his throat to let him drain it. He nodded weakly, eyes still closed against the sun. "Arthur Goodnight Robicheaux, re..." Goody gulped away the dryness in his throat. "....reporting for duty." A harsh breath, to fill his chest, and his head lifted, brilliant blue eyes hazy but still focused on Sam. "Sir."

  
Sam patted Goodnight's knee comfortingly and laughed. "Son, I ain't been your commanding officer in... Boy, I have NEVER been your commanding officer, Reb!" he laughed, a loud sound that echoed off of the canyon walls. A ghost of a smile crossed Goody's lips in response. "Gitcher ass up, we're going home. That's an order."

  
The same three that helped Goodnight overcome the fit helped him upon his horse and held him strong until the man himself was sure that he could stay in the saddle. If the three of them rode closer to Goody as they made their way back to Rose Creek, he didn't notice, too lost in the flames of the past.

 

_** Part Two Coming Soon ** _


	3. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just really filler, but here we find the fate of Faraday and what Vasquez learned at the doctor's office. Worries are put to rest for at least one of the Seven.  
> No Beta

The ride back to Emma's farm was tense and slow, their horses plodding the familiar path almost as if by memory now. While Red Harvest rode point to make sure the path was unobstructed and Horne rode rear to ensure no one fell behind, Sam and Billy spent the ride looking at each other from opposite sides of Goodnight, their eyes heavy with worry at the catatonic man that swayed in his saddle. They'd each had to stop and set him upright as he'd sagged over the horn or nearly slipped off the side more than once. The sharpshooter's eyes would slide closed slowly when addressed, offering no other response, but otherwise it seemed as if he were too tired to make eye contact. When they finally reached the ranch, Billy dismounted quickly and moved to the side of Goody's horse, Sam on the other side to help remove his foot from the stirrup and let him slide into his lover's waiting arms.

With a huff of breath knocked out of him, Goodnight landed in Billy's embrace, and Billy learned quickly that the man's feet were not going to hold him up. Sam moved to support Goodnight's other side, and with Horne and Red leading, they carried him into the front room of the large cabin Emma called "home". The Cajun shook, his breath coming out in wheezing pants that seemed louder with his head hung low between his best friend and his beloved.

Together, they sat him down upon the long couch that stretched out before the fireplace. Once settled, Billy went for water and his _madak_ , and Sam went to go find Faraday, Red Harvest and Horne busying themselves with starting the stove and preparing for dinner.

* * *

"Please... _por favor, por favor_ , Josue..." Vasquez prayed as Diabla came to a furious stop before the doctor's building. They had rode past the farm yard and straight for the medical professional that the town had just culled from the east coast, some lady that knew more about plants and animals than common sense. Still, no one doubted her expertise, and certainly didn't question her ability based on gender, as their mayor quite eloquently proved that women were indeed capable.

" _AYUDAME_!! _Doctora_!! _Emergencia_!!" he howled as he slipped off of the horse as easy as possible, trying not to jostle the unconscious _guero_ in his grip as he pulled Joshua off after him. " _Ayudame, por favor_...."

The woman, a thin, elegant lady with long fingers and sharp eyes, opened the door and looked out into the road, two men covered with blood and tears standing before her. She quickly stood to the side of the door and motioned to an empty cot. "Here. Quickly." She helped settle Joshua's body upon the sheets of a cot and then promptly began removing the ruined clothing and feeling for a pulse. "What happened? I need as exact as you can."

Vasquez sniffled, swallowing a sob with the mess he'd just snorted into the back of his throat, and drew the cleaner sleeve of his shirt across his nose. "Gang of thieves we followed. He stood up like a _pinche idiota_ and got one in the side for his trouble." He peered down upon the bare torso, realized how close to the shot he'd taken in the battle for Rose Creek it appeared to be. "He was bleeding so bad..." There was no way to stop his voice from cracking, no way to stop the sob that forced it's way out with a weary, "Oh dios mio...."

The woman's hands were a flurry of action as she rolled the unconscious Joshua to his side. "Hrm. Exit wound. Good. Bright blood, means it's not the liver. Can't smell bile, not the stomach. Just hit a lot of veins, vitals are weak, lost a lot of blood..." The woman spun around on Vasquez as the man sank to the side of Joshua's cot. "You look like a healthy candidate."

Vasquez' face went blank as he turned to the doctor. "Wh..." he shook his head to clear it. " _Quien es_?"

The doctor reached to run her cool, thin fingers over the tanned, bloodstained forearm closest to her. "Transfusion. He'll need some blood if he's to pull through. Your blood."

"What?" Vasquez repeated. Ah yes. The good doctor had brought with her new, lifesaving technologies, and while many were more than questionable, they all seemed to work in ways none of them could describe. He shook his head to clear it as his adrenaline began to crash. "No. It's okay. You know what you're doing, senora. I trust you," he murmured numbly. He began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, ruined and soaked and stiff with dried blood, when the woman waved him away.

"Take it off."

"Excuse me?" Vasquez asked. What propriety would allow him to do such a thing in front of a woman, medical professional or not?

"Take it off," the woman repeated. "If it makes you feel better for us to be on a first name basis, I'm Marie. Marie Sutter, and I'm married and have seen hundreds of males and females of varying ages in varying stages of undress. I've had my fingers in many of them, not just ON. Now, if you please," she sighed, the stress of having to justify her position wearing on her just enough to produce dark humor.

As Alejandro began to remove his shirt, the woman stood and walked to a cabinet that stored various lengths of tubing and thin steel rods. "These have been boiled to a point where any bacteria have been killed, so they're safe for use. I keep all of my instruments clean to prevent contamination." Dr Sutter removed a length and two rods and turned towards Vasquez, holding one of the rods up to glint in the light. "I also keep things sharp."

Vasquez gulped.

* * *

“Vas.” Vasquez heard the whisper, but ignored it. It could have been his imagination, it could have been shock of blood loss or shock from fear of losing his _guero_ , but the sound of his name did little to rouse him from the nap he’d slipped into after agreeing to the doctor’s strange demands. Sam looked down upon the man on the cot and decided to give him a few more moments while he turned his attentions towards the other man. No longer were the two connected by the rubber tubing the lady doctor had trussed them up with, and no longer was Faraday looking pale and sickly, but neither seemed inclined to wake at the moment. With the severity of Faraday’s wound, Sam was glad to see the man resting easy and looking better than he had left them at the canyon.

“He’ll live, I’m sure,” the lady, who had introduced herself as Sutter, reassured Sam. She was cleaning her hands with a moist cloth as she entered the room where the two men lay close together. “Took a little help from Mr Vasquez here, but these new techniques have been proven to save many lives that would have been lost from blood loss.”

Sam stood a little straighter and crossed his arms over his chest, his curiosity instantly piqued, and his protective instinct just a little on edge. These were his boys, his family. He had a right to know. “What kind of new techniques are we talking here?”

Dr Sutter smiled. “Nothing too outrageous. They shared a blood transfusion, a transfer of blood from one patient to the other. Now, young Mr Faraday, as Mr Vasquez introduced him, had lost a lot of blood, and I had to stitch up both the entry and exit wound, but it was a clean shot. I then connected them by a series of tubing using methods I learned in New York and Boston at two of the best medical schools, and Mr Vasquez shared his blood with the other. Mr Faraday seems to be doing well, his color has returned, the bleeding has stopped, and the only factor now is infection, which I did my best to reduce chances of using disinfected tools and surgery area. I’m quite passionate about my medical knowledge, Mr….”

Sam realized she was asking for introduction. “Chisolm. Sam Chisolm.”

At this, the woman paused, her eyes going wide for a moment as she dropped the cloth and her hands cupped her mouth. She glanced down first at Faraday, then Vasquez, then back to Sam. “You’re… Oh my goodness, I didn’t even put the pieces together! The saviors of Rose Creek! Of course I wasn’t here then, but I’ve heard all the tales! I didn’t….” A tear sprung to her eye. “What if… What if it hadn’t worked? What if I’d killed one? Or both? What if…”

Sam was quick to wrap his hands around both of her biceps and gently shake her to pull her out of the whirlpooling thoughts that had begun to pull her down. “Now, you didn’t. Here they are, both alive and well. And I can guarantee, Faraday’s been through worse. You did good. No one could have done more.”

Sutter looked up into the deep satin brown of Sam’s eyes and swallowed thickly, pushing down her fear as she rallied. “Yes. I mean, yes, sir. Thank you. I suppose I needed a bit of reassurance. These are still experimental after all. I appreciate your rationale.”

Sam nodded. “Now, it’s all gonna be fine, right? You did your best and no one could have asked for more. I just needed to make sure my boys are going to pull through, and now I see they’re in good hands. I’ll let them rest here, but if I know Vasquez, he’ll want to know where we are. Just tell him Emma’s, and he’ll be good.”

Sutter’s head cocked to the side curiously. “Pull through? But there was nothing wrong with Mr Vasquez.”

Sam just smiled warmly. He didn’t want to tell the woman that the outlaw had been pining for the gambler for ages now. It had been plain to see for everyone except Faraday. Just as it was clear that it would have been difficult for Vasquez, had something happened to the fiery Irishman, even if they hadn’t seen the panic that the outlaw had been in at the canyon. But Sam merely nodded, content that his boys would be fine. Now it was back to Emma’s farm to see if Goodnight had improved.


	4. Difficult Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finally gets his words in.

It was a slow swim through the comfortable haze of the madak to consciousness, and Goodnight found himself laying in a soft, warm bed. Alone. The last rays of the dying sun shone through the wispy lace curtains, playing on the lazy dance of dust motes as they strolled through the still air of the room. It was sharp, all too sharp and bright, playing against the thumming beat of his heart against the inside of his skull. He was still tired, his mouth was dry, and everything hurt as if he’d been drinking again, but the lack of whiskey’s aftertaste in his mouth told him the truth. Looking down, he realized that he had been put to bed in little more than his long underwear, stripped of his dirty items before being laid into the clean blankets. Only Billy would have been so familiar with him as to do something like this. Beyond the room, and he could hear the movements of men in the other rooms of the house, muffled by a door that suddenly creaked open to reveal a tired and worn Billy carrying a bowl of steaming stew.

  
“Good. You’re awake,” he murmured, sliding into the room and closing the door. “Your body apparently needed the rest.”

A few blessed moments of confusion played with the sharpshooter’s mind before reality came crashing upon his shoulders. “Faraday. What happened to Joshua?” he mumbled as he tried to toss off the blankets with shaking hands. 

Billy was at his side in a flash, placing the bowl upon the bedside table and trying to press Goodnight back into the covers. “Stop that. He’s fine. Sam came back about an hour ago and announced to us he would make a full recovery. You need rest now.”

  
Goody’s eyes narrowed, watering at the effort to stay upright, but he stopped struggling. “Me? But, what, Billy, you know me, I have… Well, what happens, happens and once I’ve had a break, I’m right as rain. Now I’ve had my moment of peace and I’m fit to see another day.”

Billy sat down close to the Cajun on the side of the bed, his face drawn with concern. “Goody. This one was worse than the others. After a normal one, you feel like shit. I’ve never seen you like this before. If all you do is humor me, stay in bed, at least til morning.”

Goody’s expression morphed into curiosity, then resolve. Billy had seen the worst that the sharpshooter had endured. He had watched the man shiver fearfully through fireworks in bigger cities with healthy Asian populations. He had watched the man shudder through the owl’s call in Rose Creek. He’d seen the man nearly break apart when people had merely dropped enough to make a great crash, and yet, the reaction at the canyon had been a new experience.

“Alright,” he reassured softly. “Alright, Bill. I’ll stay, but… who’s house is this again?”

“Emma’s.”

“Very well. If only we’re not kicking the fair mayoress of this town out of her home and her bed. And provided you share the space with me,” Goody mumbled, sinking back against the pillows, only to shimmy across the sheets until there was enough space for the assassin to lay next to him.

Instead of sprawling comfortably next to his lover, Billy sat against the headboard and pulled Goodnight into his lap. He began stroking the tawny locks and admiring the few strands of silver he found there as Goody grasped the rough fabric of Billy’s trousers in a tight grip. Age was sneaking up upon them both, faster upon Goodnight it seemed, with the stress of his condition. They were not too far apart in age, agreeing to settle upon Goodnight being a “few years older” than Billy, but Billy knew he’d age gracefully comparatively.

“Hey, Billy?” Goodnight mumbled into Billy’s leg.

“Hrm?”

“They’re not… The fella’s, I mean. They’re not gonna... run me out of town, so to speak, are they?” Goody asked timidly, the cadence of his words disturbed by the shaking of emotion evident within the question.

Billy stopped stroking the sharpshooter’s hair and looked down upon him. “Now that is an ignorant thing for you to say," he said flatly. "We’re all in this together. Sam wouldn’t give you up, none of them would. If not them, then you and me. Where you go, I go, remember?”

“Yeah,” Goody breathed hot over Billy’s thigh. “Yeah, I suppose you’re correct.” 

"Goody," BIlly began in that plaintive style, the one that usually followed denials of owls. "Goody, when was the last time Sam gave up on you?"

The sharpshooter was silent for a moment as he thought. "I suppose he never has." Not even when he should have, Goodnight thought. Not even in Rose Creek.

"See? It's all in your head. And if you're done being caught there, I brought supper," and with that, the assassin reached over to grasp the earthenware bowl, ignoring the heat that spiked sharply through his fingertips. "It'll go cold if you ignore it."

Goodnight sat up with some effort, wincing at the ache in his head before he took the stew. "Ah, my sweet prince, always taking care of this old man. A million worlds would have been further blessed by your presence, but here you are in mine."

Billy huffed a laugh and turned to look away, a faint dusting of pink crested upon the sharp cheekbones. He should have been used to the flattery by now, but it never ceased to make him blush. "Just eat your damn stew, you ass," he said, presenting Goodnight with a spoon, but there were no heat in his words.  
______________________________

_He can smell the blood, so thick he can almost taste it upon the air. It's a cruel blessing that he can see nothing except the blackness of his mind, blank only for the voices that surround him. They are the screams of the dying, the echos of the dead that sound like owls in the far distance, howling upon the wind. He tried to turn only to feel himself being held in place, and he begins to sweat. It pools in the hollow of his neck, gathers at his armpits and reeks of terror. There's an unknown in the darkness, one that he can only guess at, and every guess is as terrible as the next._

  
_Then he hears the gunshot, the one report that sounds exactly like his own rifle, memorized from the years that he spent holding only that one thing against him like a lost lover. The one thing that kept him from dying and becoming another echo. The sound recochets in the distance, and it's familiar, like bullets off of canyon walls. Then he knows where the blood is from and he hears a scream. He thinks it's his until he can hear the swearing, Spanish in so many growls of panic. He knows now who's blood it is in the wind, and he wants to vomit, wants to scream but can't seem to make sound push through to his mouth. He can feel the hot salt tears beginning their way down his cheeks and he can't move towards the sound. Those are his friends, his family, and he can hear them dying. Can FEEL them dying. He can feel the wound now. It digs into him slowly, like a red hot poker, pushing into his skin until flesh breaks. It worms it's way down until he can feel the skin snap around it as it pushes out of the back. He tries to scream again, but to no avail. It's just him and the pain this time, in the darkness of his own hell. It's visceral in a way that waking only seemed during the war, playing upon each fear as if they were tightly strung chords from a violin. And he plays beautifully..._

  
He caught himself before the screams started this time, sparing the man at his side from waking and tending to the wounded soldier. The serenity in Billy's face calmed the erratic breathing until it was nothing more than heavy sighs. His stomach knotted angrily, a reminder that there was another emptiness inside him, this time easily sated. Knowing Emma, there would be bread, simple enough to settle upon the anger broiling in his gut and not come back up in his distress.

  
Silence permeated the house when Goodnight finally escaped the warm embrace of Billy's arms on shaky legs to answer nature's call. The outhouse wasn't far from the home, but it was a troublesome walk when his knees couldn't be trusted to hold him up. The dew upon the green grass caressed his feet as he stepped gingerly through the night, watching for the taletell sign of serpent or rock. The night was cool upon his fevered skin and he shivered with the warm breeze that seemed to tussle the nightshirt that brushed against his calves. He'd have to thank Billy for searching through the late Matthew Cullen's belongings to find the garment he wore, smelling faintly of cedar. 

Once back in the house, he followed the hall past the other door leading to the master bedroom and wandered into the kitchen, his feet growing more sure with each step and padding dully across the polished wood. The kitchen still smelled faintly of the stew he devoured eagerly earlier, and he lamented not seeing the pot still available. If he was correct, the leftovers would have been taken care of by his found family. However, his growling stomach ached at the sight of bread and butter upon the baker's rack and he sliced off a piece with the knife that sat nearby, then taking care to spread a pat of butter across it's dense surface.

  
"Glad to see you're up," said a familiar voice from the couch in the attached living room, and Goodnight nearly dropped his prize. Something in him, embarrassment or shame, began to quake through his muscles and his eyes went wide when he spotted Sam Chisolm sitting close to a cold fireplace.

  
"Ought not frighten a man so, Sam. Old men like us can only take so many shocks to the system," he croaked, finally able to spot the sillhouette of the warrant officer in the other room.

  
The shadow of a man jerked his head towards the open chair nearest him. "Come sit. Finish your bread."

  
Goodnight knew better than to argue with the man. Clenching his bread, he shuffled towards the chair, his knees remembering their early weakness suddenly before he fell into the soft cushions. He still eyed Sam warily, readying himself for a chiding of his childish behavior. Instead, Sam's voice remained soft and calm.

  
"Feeling any better?" Sam asked gently, always to the point.

  
Goody took the time to close his eyes. The headaches had dissipated with the rest Billy had forced him into, and the muscle aches were all that remained. He found that he had not yet recovered from the exhaustion, but a few more hours of sleep should absolve him of that. "Yes," he answered weakly. "Still... a little fatigued, but that should resolve itself once I return to bed."

  
Sam nodded. "Good. That's good. You ready to talk?" he asked, pursing his lips.

  
The sharpshooter didn't want to. He wasn't ready to hear what Sam had to say, and the demons in his mind told him to expect the worse. He knew the owl was close, closer than it had been in days leading up to the shootout at the canyon, and he feared that beast's cry. He could feel the roiling in his stomach again, threatening him with a revisit of the bread and butter he’d already eaten as he silently lowered himself to the couch two arms-length from his best friend, his confidant, the man who’d saved him so many times before he’d been lucky enough to meet Billy. How could he find himself dreading a man who’s never judged him a moment in his life?

  
Sam eyed him critically for a moment, reading the apprehension in his features. If anyone had ever been able to read him, it would have been the warrant officer who’d made a career of reading people. Licking his lips, Sam took a slow breath. “How you feeling? Took a bad turn there for a while. Was a little worried for you, not gonna lie,” the man finished lamely, scratching absently at his forehead with a pinkie.

  
Goody felt the hot prickle at the edges of his eyes and he blinked them away in surprise. Sam, worried? Few times in his life had he ever thought the man to share his concern, and none more powerful than Lincoln, Kansas, where he’d lost his family. Perhaps in the many years they had known each other, Sam had been concerned for him, but he’d never have known it, lost in the haze of his own nightmares, both waking and unconscious. Goody looked down at the bread in his hand and lay it upon his knee, hunger forgotten, and brushed the few crumbs from his hands. “Not gonna lie,” he echoed, “I feel like I’d be trampled by wild horses, my friend.” In that moment, his shoulders fell and he hung his head forward. “Why?” he mumbled.

  
Sam sat forward, his elbows upon his knees and brows furrowed in concern. “Why, what, Goody?” he whispered.

  
The shiver ran through Goody and he found he couldn’t shake the sudden cold that ran through his veins. “Why keep me around? I’ve told you before, Sam. I’m yella. I’m a coward. I despise myself, for so much, for this. Why keep me around?”

  
The couch dipped beside him and he felt the large calloused palm close over his shoulder, a thumb rubbing circles into the skin beneath the nightshirt. “Goody… Goody, you’re my friend. ‘Friend’ is a word that means a lot more to me than a definition. There’s no one I’d keep closer to me, no one I’d trust more at my back than you.”

  
The unshed tears burned through the lump in Goodnight’s throat and he pushed the words forward. “A sharpshooter who can’t shoot? I’m terrified of my own damned gun, Sam. What good is that to you? To anyone? To Billy? That owl has grown closer and closer and closer since Rose Creek and one day it’s gonna catch me, one final day when I pull that trigger. I’m destined to a fiery damnation and I’m terrified, Sam… I just…” The thought of his dearest Billy being in a situation that required him to pull the trigger in anger once more filled him with a dire fear that boiled beneath his skin each time they stepped into a town, where anyone could take issue with the Asian’s very being. His kind were not very welcome and Goodnight’s charm would only work so far to pull them from the clutches of a true fight.

  
“Goodnight… look at me,” Sam murmured, and Goodnight was powerless to do anything but peer up into those deep, dark eyes. “You’re here because I want you here. WE want you here, not just Billy, but Horne, Vas, Red, even Faraday…”

  
Goody’s eyes hardened at the mention of Joshua Faraday and his face clouded with apprehension once again. “But because of me…”

  
“Because of you, nothing, you hear me? His getting shot was his own stupidity. He stood up in a firefight when he should have kept his head down, the idiot. He’ll tell you that himself.”

  
The sharpshooter swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump that had reformed and threatened to erupt from him in a sob. “He’s really gonna be okay?”

  
Sam smirked and gently shook Goodnight with the hand that still rested upon his shoulder. “What’s ever kept that man down longer than rotgut? Got his ass handed to him by some dynamite and he’s still kicking, isn’t he? Seems they got this new doctor in town, a real miracle worker, some say. Got some new stuff from back east that’s pulled him out of danger thus far,” he finished, lowering his hand to rest upon his own knee as his face eased into something softer. “He’ll be alright, Goody. Vas is a good rider, got him into town before too much damage could be done.”

  
Goody sniffled lamely and swallowed thickly once more. Taking a few calming breaths, he sighed. “No one… no one blames me?”

  
With a slow blink, Sam shook his head. “Not a one.”

  
“I’m still a coward… I’m no good to you or anyone…” Goodnight muttered.

  
Sam moved until he was squatting before the other man and placed his warm, worn hands gingerly moving the uneaten slice of bread to the couch and then returning to rest upon the shirted knees. “Now that’s a lie you been telling yourself for years. What I know is a man who’s fought his demons for decades to be here now, and I don’t see anyone braver than yourself. You keep fighting, you’re still here, and that’s a strength I’ve never seen from anyone else besides others who’ve gathered here with us. Red Harvest defied his tribe, Horne wrestles with his faith, Vas still has that warrant out for him, and Faraday would have wasted away in his former life. Me, well… You know my story, and I found a family after…” He faded off, his eyes distant in a way that they only got when he began to remember his deceased family. “What kind of life would Billy have without us, without you? Would he let you go so easily?”

  
The Cajun shook his head. “Sometimes…” he sighed heavily, his eyes beginning to search the shadows of the darkened room in which they sat. “Sometimes I think he’d be better off without-“

  
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Sam interrupted and Goody’s eyes darted back to the man before him. “That man wouldn’t leave your side, not after you ran and came back, not while you lay in a bed busted up so bad we didn’t think you’d make it, not when you bitched about not being the same afterwards, he wouldn’t leave you then, and he won’t leave you now.”

  
“But…” the sharpshooter tried, he tried to justify himself in the face of such pure honesty, such strong belief in a man that was merely a shell, but there was no denying the steadfastness chiseled upon his ebony features. No words came to finish the sentiment, especially when the other man took the doubt from his trembling lips and turned them so beautifully upon him. 

  
“There is no but,” Sam said softly. “It’s all in your head, Goody. And we’re here to be in your head too. We’re here to help you fight them demons until you can stand strong on your own. And until you can, you can lean on us.” Goodnight nodded woodenly and swallowed back more tears that threatened to spill. Sam patted the knee beneath his right hand and stood with a heavy sigh. “Now, you finish your… your bread and head back to bed. I’ll be up for a few.”

  
Goodnight looked down upon the bread at his side and decided that it would wait until the morning. His hunger had been abated by the speech given to him, and the weight of things given to him to think upon would keep him until then. As Sam slipped out of the room and onto the porch, Goody stood on shaky legs and deposited the slice of bread upon the plate where the loaf sat. Either it would disappear with the trash in the morning, or remain there for him to finish when he awoke later with the day. 

  
His eyes were distant as he peered down into the darkness of the hallway. How could he have ever thought to abandon Billy once more after his display of cowardice in town? Despite the shadow of doubt he must have planted in the assassin's heart, the man still loved him, still fought for him, and still remained by his side through all of the owl's haunting. Doubt still burned in his chest, but he knew that Sam had to have been right. When was the man not? They were all dysfunctional, but they were together, a family built of their own mishaps and misdeeds. They stood together, through the recovery after Bogue, even when needed moments away, they still returned to each other, gravitating around the things that had brought them to this point. And Billy, his poor sweet Billy, had been kicked to the ground and torn asunder by the country they had all fought for, in their own ways. To abandon them was to take away a part of each one, as surely as they had dug their way into Goodnight himself. 

  
A fleeting smile crossed his chapped lips as he thought about Red Harvest and how the others had deemed him their little brother. Vasquez and his passion for life impressed the poet within Goodnight, as did Faraday's. Each showed their hand in a different manner, and it was only a matter of time before they recognized the yearning within each other that burned for the other man. The thought of young love made Goody's heart flutter, and were they not a part of him, it would not be so. Horne had done a thousand misdeeds, and yet, his soul seemed so pure in his faith, it could do nothing but inspire the Cajun. Sam, oh, his Sam, was a beacon of truth and trust when Goodnight had none within himself. Each had given the sharpshooter reason to smile when all seemed bleak. 

  
But how would they look upon him now? Now that they had seen him break from reality and crumple to the ground, weak and frail and cowardly? 

  
Bitterly, Goodnight sighed. He was tired suddenly, so very tired, and his feet felt like lead as he pushed himself down the hall. He hesitated at the door, knowing that Billy was awake. He would have sat up in bed not long after Goodnight had left, but, good man, would have respected the privacy of two old soldiers in conversation. He dreaded the thought that he, once again, had deprived his beloved some much needed rest, but he ached to be in the salvation of the other man's arms. There was safety there, always had there been safety, and it called to him now. 

Opening the door, sure enough, he found Billy sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the door. Silently, the other man moved back into the bed and sat against the headboard, reaching for the intoxicating cigarettes that kept Goody in check on his worst days. Billy could see the weariness outlined in his face and struck a match on the headboard, lighting one of the madak. The cherry glowed with his slow, deep drag as he leaned his head back, then opened one arm wide, beckoning the sharpshooter to his side. 

  
Goodnight wasted no time and slid into the bed to rest his head upon Billy's naked chest, throwing an arm around the other man's waist as he moved until he lay comfortably. Silently, Billy offered the smoke to Goody as the other curled his arm around the sharpshooter's shoulders. Gingerly, he took the smoke from Billy and inhaled deeply, letting the acrid-sweet smoke of the opium curl around his lungs to be blown out in a gust of blue smoke.  
"You left," Billy said gruffly, his voice tinged with sleep.

  
Goodnight took another drag before offering it back up to Billy. The slow, soft calm had begun to settle into his veins and he sighed heavily against Billy's skin. "The call of nature woke me from my sleep, then reminded me that I might have a want for a bite to eat."

  
He heard Billy inhale, felt the inflation of his lungs before the room faded more through the smoke. "Little long for a bite." 

  
Goody could hear nothing but curiosity in his tone, from years of learning how to read the man. He swallowed, then motioned for the cigarette. "Sam caught me," he muttered darkly after a few beats of heavy quiet.

  
There was silence for a while, and he knew Billy was thinking. He took advantage of the moment to pull more smoke into himself through the cigarette, feeling heavy and finally sleepy. He could feel the motions of his lover above him, spitting upon his fingers and crushing the glowing cherry between his rough fingertips. How the man felt no pain in this action, he had no idea, but then, Billy was the toughest man he knew. He sat up long enough to let the assassin settle back into bed, only to be pulled warmly against the other's bare chest. Billy knew his moods, and knew not to press for things Goody wasn't ready to spill, but knew were invariably coming regardless. Billy knew when to wait.

  
"How do you do this?" Goodnight murmured softly, his warm breath ghosting across the bare, warm skin his head lay upon, and Billy knew he didn't mean the cigarette. Billy would always know what he meant. 

  
"You know why," was all the other man sleepily muttered, flexing the arm that held Goodnight and pulling him closer. His eyes began to drift closed in the darkness of the room, painted in the hazy moonlight that danced in the dying clouds of madak smoke. He heard the words whispered to him, words that the other man had rarely mentioned and would never say in English. They were words that he had taken upon himself to learn from vendors and books, but would never tell Billy that he knew. Regardless, through actions and looks, they both understood what it meant.

_Because I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I am not entirely happy with the way this chapter turned out, but felt it was absolutely necessary to reassure Goodnight, and if anyone was able to help him feel assured, it would be Sam.   
> There will be one last chapter coming up, just to bring them all back together. I'm sure people are concerned about where Vas and Faraday are, so we'll be seeing them back!  
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments, everyone. They really do mean a lot, since this was a work of emotion for me. Doesn't mean I won't still be writing whump or angst, so check out my other works if you feel like it!

**Author's Note:**

> Aga: Korean, "baby"  
> Yeon-in: Korean, "sweetheart"  
> Nae-salang: Korean, "my love"  
> Vamanos: Spanish, "Let's go!"  
> Jefe: Spanish, "boss"  
> Callate: Spanish, "Shut up!"  
> Mira, estupido: Spanish, "Look, stupid"  
> Cabron: Spanish, "Asshole"  
> Pinche guero!: Spanish, "F**king ginger!"  
> Hermoso: Spanish, "handsome"
> 
> I totally HC Billy calling Goody "baby" in his own language, that they totally trade sweet nothings in their own languages and have since Billy got tired of hearing "cher" and needed one of his own. It didn't stop at just one.
> 
> Also, don't touch people in active fit stage. Billy gets away with it because Goodnight is familiar with it, and they had to turn him to his side. Tending to fits weren't something people knew of back then, but I think it's feasible Red Harvest knows more medicine than the others.


End file.
